The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters. Michael Kurland

was clear she still did not remember me, at least she was gracious enough to provide an excuse.

      I helped her to her carriage, then returned to our chambers.

      “What a superb woman.” I closed the door behind me and took my seat.

      Holmes chuckled and walked to the fireplace, his pipe in hand. “Yes, quite remarkable, isn’t she?”

      “Luckily we weren’t taken in by Denbeigh’s story.”

      After leaning to light a twist of paper in the fireplace, Holmes straightened, lit his pipe, and waited until it was drawing properly before replying.

      “You recall that jade dragon I received in this morning’s post?”

      “Yes, you put it on the mantelpiece.” I looked up and gasped. “Good Lord, it has vanished!”

      “Precisely.” Holmes’s voice was filled with satisfaction. “Either Her Grace is so brilliant a kleptomaniac that she has achieved an unnoticed theft at 221B Baker Street or her son wishes us to think so.”

      “Well, of all the amazing nerve!”

      “Watson, we have met a worthy antagonist.” Holmes suddenly emptied his pipe into the fire and strode to the door. “Come along, old chap. Don your hat and coat. I think we will take the liberty of providing the duchess with an unobtrusive escort.”

      * * * *

      The street lamps glowed warmly as I limped after Holmes into Carrington’s, the silversmiths on Regent Street.

      “Holmes, this is the twelfth shop we’ve visited,” I whispered. “My feet are tired, my leg aches. We’ve been following the duchess all afternoon.”

      “I was eager to observe Her Grace amongst temptation.” Holmes hovered by a display case.

      “Temptation?” I grumbled. “As far as I can see, she hasn’t been tempted to do anything except purchase a variety of items in far too many shops.”

      “Well, I must admit that I have not observed any untoward behaviour thus far,” Holmes replied.

      Across the shop, the duchess studied a display of small silver goods laid out upon the counter. The manager, a tall, lugubrious Scot with an unfortunate squint, hovered over her like a stork over a new-born chick as she examined piece after piece.

      The door bell rang, and a fashionably dressed young man with curling, chestnut hair stepped inside the shop.

      “Hullo, Grandmama!” he called, waving his stick. “Saw the carriage outside and thought you might be here.”

      Her Grace turned and regarded the young man with a fond smile.

      “Ah, Hilary. I wondered when you would find me.” Turning to face us, she continued. “Mr Holmes, Doctor. Do stop trying to disappear into the woodwork and come meet my grandson.”

      Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Warmth spread across my cheeks, but Holmes appeared amused.

      Introductions were quickly made. Her Grace returned to her examination of silver toothpick holders and other small trinkets, while the viscount eyed the items on the counter and criticised each one. He then stepped to my side and nudged me with an elbow.

      “Keeping an eye on Grandmama, eh? Capital idea. My uncle informed me that he intended to consult you regarding her condition,” he whispered. “Can’t be too careful when she’s out and about.”

      “I beg your pardon,” I replied, drawing away. What effrontery!

      “Not at all.” He winked, returning to Her Grace when she called to him.

      The duchess completed her purchase. A smile touched her lips as she turned to Holmes.

      “I am returning home now, Mr Holmes. You are released from duty.”

      Holmes barked a laugh and then bowed.

      “Your Grace is too kind.”

      She then gestured to me. “Doctor, accompany me to my carriage, if you please.”

      I was delighted to offer this small service and gave her my arm. We were followed by a shop assistant carrying her parcel.

      As I handed her into her carriage, the viscount hurried from the shop. “I say, Grandmama! I may as well return home with you.”

      He brushed past me and climbed into the carriage.

      I waited until the brougham had clattered down the street and turned the corner before re-entering the shop. Holmes was deep in conversation with the manager.

      “Ah, Watson,” he said as I approached. “Mr Ferguson has a question for you.”

      Mr Ferguson leaned across the counter. “Doctor, did you see Her Grace pick up a wee enamelled card case? The green one?” he asked, his voice a murmur.

      I thought for a moment before replying in the same soft tones.

      “I believe Her Grace examined one, but I’m certain she returned it to the counter. Why?”

      “A card case has gone missing,” said Holmes, looking unruffled. “Although before searching any further, Mr Ferguson, I would ask Watson to show us the contents of his left outer pocket.”

      “The contents of my…” I stared at Holmes as I slipped my hand into the pocket. “Why, there is nothing—Good Lord!”

      I drew out my hand. A small green card case rested in my palm.

      Ferguson uttered a strangled sound and reached for the case.

      “But I never touched it,” I cried, allowing Ferguson to snatch it away. “How could it—?”

      “Calm yourself, my dear fellow,” said Holmes, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “No one believes you were responsible for taking it.”

      “I should hope not!”

      “No, it appears she took it from the counter and then slipped it into your pocket.”

      “But Holmes, the viscount could have—”

      Holmes squeezed my shoulder and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He turned to Ferguson. “I believe you have heard rumours about Her Grace, Mr Ferguson.”

      I could hardly believe my ears. Holmes was as good as stating that the duchess was responsible for the theft. Surely the viscount had the same opportunity to take the card case and slip it into my pocket as his grandmother.

      “Aye, I have.” Ferguson sighed. “Though I thought to pay them no heed.”

      “It is a sad case,” Holmes said softly. “And one that, were it made public, could bring shame upon the family.”

      “But what am I to do if it happens again, Mr Holmes?” Ferguson asked, frowning. “She frequently patronises our business. I cannae call the police, but the losses—”

      “I believe I have a solution to your problem.” Holmes smiled. “Observe her whenever she visits. Anything that is not paid for should be added to her account. I believe this will prove most satisfactory for both parties in handling any such incidents in the future.”

      Ferguson’s dour expression cleared. “That would suit us quite well, Mr Holmes.”

      “Excellent,” said Holmes. “In that way your shop will sustain no loss, and the family will be spared public scandal. Yes, a very satisfactory arrangement, I think.” He turned to me. “Come along, Watson.”

      I could barely wait until we were out of the shop and walking along the pavement before turning to Holmes.

      “But, Holmes! Her Grace might not be guilty; the viscount could have as easily taken the card case.”

      “I know that, dear fellow,” he said, raising his stick toward an unoccupied hansom. The driver reined in